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Meditations On A Theme of Clothing

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Meditations On A Theme Of Clothing

 

It’s that feeling in the early morning when the light shines through the crack in the curtains, dust-motes in cool English sunshine, landing on Crowley’s sleeping face. The curtains have never really fit that window properly and you haven’t used your bed enough to bother changing it. Perhaps you should, now that someone else has taken up permanent residence here, but the sight of the shaft of pale, hazy light over Crowley’s lax mouth, his closed, unshielded eyes, his sleep-messy hair, the way it doesn’t so much soften him as reveal that essential softness he tries (and fails) to keep hidden...

It’s that feeling later, as Crowley stumbles into the kitchen, squinting reproachfully against wakefulness, body still soft and warm and dressed in nothing but your shirt. There’s nothing indecent about it, everything is covered, and yet Crowley’s long, bare legs, the way he wears the cuffs open and dangling over his hands, the way he hugs himself while waiting for the expensive coffee maker to spit out his drink, nose buried in the collar, as though part of him is still in bed and cuddled up to you…

It’s that feeling in the afternoon as the clouds gather and the rain closes in, that particular kind of cold and damp that gets into Crowley’s bones, sending him to pace irritably around the stacks until you snappishly send him away. Only to find him later curled up on the couch buried under one of your Aran jumpers, focussing furiously on his phone while the wide neck of the jumper slides unheeded off one sharp-angled shoulder…

It’s that feeling that blooms in your chest, still powerful enough after all this time to steal your breath, when Crowley comes into the kitchen to find you making him a hot water bottle, and slides himself around you instead. The way he fits into your hollow spaces and fills them up with nothing but himself, like nothing ever has, and you have nothing but yourself to give back, and it’s not nothing after all. It’s the way he kisses you, gentle, gentle, and time sways away and the water goes cold, but it no longer matters because by the time you’re done Crowley is quite warm again…

It’s that feeling when you see him in your space, in your home, wearing it like he believes in his welcome, like you were able to make him believe it, the way it settles about his shoulders like the tartan scarf he’s started wearing when the November wind is particularly harsh, the way he takes something of yours for protection, the way you have always given it but couldn’t say it until now. That way he scowls when he notices you noticing, daring you to say anything, the way you love teasing him but not about this because you don’t want him to stop…

It’s that feeling when he wraps his hand around yours, the same way he wraps himself in you.

It’s that feeling. It’s exactly that feeling.